


Attrition

by DhampirsDrinkEspresso



Series: Redemption [2]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: BDSM, Biting, Bondage, Collars, F/M, Flogging, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Hair-pulling, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Leather, Light BDSM, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Paddling, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23894386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DhampirsDrinkEspresso/pseuds/DhampirsDrinkEspresso
Summary: “He’s a spoiled child who should be paddled and sent to bed wanting.”The voice breaks into his thoughts and the images the words call into being are decidedly not the kind of punishment they mean. He’s lost. Fully and completely lost, drowning in the thought, the mental image, the (yes) fantasy. It’s not until Finn’s head snaps around to look at him and Rey gasps that he realizes what he’s done, how he pushed at the image, broadcasting it.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Finn/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Rey, Poe Dameron/Finn/Rey
Series: Redemption [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696054
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	Attrition

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be straight out smut but somehow these four just keep making it all soft...maybe I'll have better luck next time?

**_at·tri·tion_ **

**_noun_ **

  1. **_the action or process of gradually reducing the strength or effectiveness of someone or something through sustained attack or pressure._**
  2. **_(in scholastic theology) sorrow, but not contrition, for sin._**



He can hear them.

He always hears them.

There has always been at least one voice in his mind, at least one sibilant whisper in his ear. Morning or night, sleeping and waking, he has—

— _never_ —

— _been_ —

— _alone_ —

—in his own head.

And yet, somehow, he was _always_ alone until now. Until Rey.

She’s loud—a bright, booming presence and sometimes she can silence the others, scare the darkness away, just by existing.

It’s not Rey though, who says the thing that starts it all. No, this voice is all too real, echoing in his ear and never his mind until _he_ takes it there, rolls it over and over, pokes and prods at it. 

_“He’s a spoiled child who should be paddled and sent to bed wanting.”_

He doesn’t know who said it, doesn’t care. It elicits a mix of reactions, a shuffling of nervous laughter and half-whispered comments about the foolishness of even attempting to “rehabilitate” him.

Rehabilitate, as if he is a wounded animal that can ever be released back into the wild.

He isn’t sure why they haven’t killed him yet. Or at least punished him. He should be punished. He _wants_ to be punished.

He _needs_ to be.

It’s been hours today, just like the last (how many?) days.

Doesn’t know.

Doesn’t care.

It’s the same argument over and over and there’s no progress. So his mind wanders.

Again.

He pokes at the bond.

Again.

Rey makes a face at him, and his mother pretends at patience.

Again.

Then the voice breaks into his thoughts and the images the words call into being are decidedly not the kind of punishment they mean. He’s lost. Fully and completely lost, drowning in the thought, the mental image, the (yes) _fantasy._ It’s not until Finn’s head snaps around to look at him and Rey gasps that he realizes what he’s done, how he pushed at the image, broadcasting it.

His mother looks ill and ends the meeting.

_“We could try that,”_ Rey breathes, and it’s fortunate no one at the far end of the table seems to hear because he is SURE she didn’t mean to vocalize the thought.

As the room empties the grumbling grows fainter. Finn is whispering, low and fast, to Poe in his seat on Rey’s right, leaning around her to get closer to the other man. As Finn talks, Poe stares, laser focused and mouth making a little “o” of surprise before he looks away.

Rey hasn’t looked away from him, has barely blinked, and the pulsing of WANT between them tells him the flush on her cheeks isn’t from embarrassment.

They take him back to his “quarters” and he’s left with only his thoughts, the metal locked around his neck stopping all but the minimal access to the Force he needs to keep from going mad.

Well, more so than he already is.

He can’t feel Rey once she gets more than a few feet away. Not unless she wants him to.

He knows he is being punished when he feels the brush of skin on skin, hears the soft sighs and groans of pleasure. She’s projecting at him.

Sound.

Touch.

He can’t see anything, like everything else the bond is dampened, at least on his side. But he has the sensation of being inside her skin, feeling everything Rey is feeling. He had known she was getting stronger, learning how to use the Force, how to move within the confines of their bond. He hadn’t known she could do… _this._

He hears a smack of something solid against supple flesh, echoes the gasp of surprised arousal at the sting, low across her (his?) thighs.

There’s an extra weight to his collar, and he realizes that it’s because wherever she is, Rey is wearing a collar as well.

He can feel the smirk on her lips when she knows he has recognized the sensation of the supple leather around her neck, feels the naughty almost-smile as if it is his own, and the weight of shackles and chains, the sting as another blow falls, the burning bliss of pain across his back.

He’s there sharing it all with her, feeling the bruising force of a mouth as someone—no, not just someone, _Finn_ —kisses Rey, while another blow crosses her—his— _their_ back.

Poe.

He whimpers, writhing on the narrow cot, wanting and needing and he CAN’T HAVE.

The connection shuts off then, and for the first time since his capture, he feels a tear escape his closed eye, lets it run down and back, caress his ear before soaking into his hair.

He hadn’t believed he could cry anymore.

Something that feels very much like hope tries to force its way through him. He pushes his gratitude at the bond, hoping she can feel it, even though she has cut him off. He can still _feel_ something other than rage.

Maybe, just maybe, there really is hope.

It happens again the next night. This time Rey is the one holding a smooth handle, flicking her wrist a few times to test the weight, a shudder of pleasure down her (his) spine as the knotted leather cords at the end whistle through the air and land with a series of thuds.

A body presses against her (against _him_ ), from behind, hand guiding hers ( _his_ ) and voice whispering low in her ear, praising and instructing. Poe. He has her snap her wrist a few more times, doesn’t want her to actually hurt Finn this first time.

The bond shuts off before anything more happens.

The third time she draws him in with them, Finn and Rey have Poe bound, his voice hoarse with desire as he walks them through it again, telling them what he wants, urging them on, the pair taking turns.

This time when she cuts him out of the bond, it’s with Poe’s lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth.

He falls asleep that night with the echo of that kiss, of Poe’s tongue twined with his own. His last conscious thought is that he might like to try that for real one day. As himself and not just through Rey.

There is nothing for the next week, and when they do come for him it is a shock.

If he consents, then they are taking him, Rey explains, to keep. He belongs to them until they all decide otherwise, the four of them together.

He won’t go back to the cell, she tells him. Won’t be dragged to any more unnecessary “briefings.”

He will be expected to divulge any helpful details he knows, of course.

He will be put to work. Hard labor during the day, with at least one of them as his guard, his _handler_.

He will help rebuild the Republic. This is non-negotiable.

The nights, she says, will make it all worth it.

They will never do anything to him that they have not experienced themselves.

Safewords will be respected.

He will belong to them, to Finn and Rey and Poe, and in return they will be his keepers. They will care for him, guard him against any threats, and use him as they wish.

He believes her, consents.

The first night, they only sleep, a tangle of limbs in a bed almost too small to hold them all. And the second.

The third day dawns to Rey and Finn leading him out into this world, to the ruins of a settlement ravaged by the First Order, probably at his own command. He spends the day clearing the rubble—by hand, two collars—the Force dampener and another of soft black leather—layered firmly in place.

Rey helps, lifting rocks via the Force, while Finn observes, then later tries himself. He manages to dislodge some pebbles before he has to sit down, overexerted.

The third night there are looks, an exchange of words, negotiations made and limits set, but he collapses in exhaustion before anything can actually happen.

The frustration is a punishment all its own.

It continues this way through the end of the week, until the rebuilding can begin, and they move on to another settlement, another village decimated. Sometimes he is accompanied by Finn and Rey, sometimes Poe as well. Always at least two of them. He likes it best when it’s all three.

Finally, there is a rest day, and they begin the night early, skipping dinner in the mess hall in favor of hastily devoured ration packs in their quarters.

It’s not an exact replica of his vision, that flash of fantasy. Somehow, it’s better. He’s collared and chained at the foot of the bed, the leather collar layered over the lightweight metal of the Force dampener, and enough play in the bonds that he can stand a few feet away or sit on the end of the mattress, just out of touching range of the bed’s occupants. Rey and Finn sit back against the pillows and they are _Watching_ him. They haven’t said anything, and they’re still (mostly) clothed but she is leaning into Finn’s side and Finn’s hands are stroking over her arms and down her ribs. He can’t see Poe, but he can hear him, can _feel_ him moving in the room. He can’t hold back a shuddering sigh when he feels the press of leather against his spine. He braces for the impact, wanting ( _needing_ ) the sting of pain.

It doesn’t come.

Poe steps around him, grabs his face, jaw cupped in a grip like iron and just this side of bruising. The pain is enough to slow his breathing, replace the building terror at what he has agreed to, what he is allowing, what he might _do_ if it’s all too much, with a vastly different wildness.

“Good, that’s better. I want you here, in this room with the three of us. I want you focused.” The other man’s voice is low, gravelly. He didn’t know Poe could sound like that. Poe leans in closer, enough that his vision starts to blur around the edges. “No matter what you think you want, what you think you deserve, this isn’t about punishment for punishment’s sake. That’s not the game I – we – play.” It’s _almost_ a lie. Poe _wants_ to punish him, wants to hear him cry out, maybe even bleed him a little.

But he knows Poe also simply _wants_ him and that had come as an unexpected (though not unwelcome) shock.

Rey he knew wanted him. The bond had ensured he knew it.

Finn had watched him curiously, the spark of desire kindling slowly over time, thanks partly to Rey projecting her desire before she had managed to learn that aspect of control. But once she DID control it, Finn had still watched him, wanted him.

Poe was the surprise. Poe was _always_ the surprise.

His eyes can’t seem to decide between focusing on Poe’s eyes or his lips. His breathing is picking up again but it’s not because he’s scared of losing control this time. There is no control left to lose, because here, in this room, in this moment with Poe’s hand holding his chin, with Finn and Rey on the bed—so close but too far—he has surrendered his control.

Control is Poe’s job.

He feels…safe…for the first time in longer than he cares to remember.

It’s a shock when Poe leans in and claims his mouth. It’s bruising, all teeth and lips and tongue, and he isn’t sure if he’s being kissed or devoured and it’s perfect and _don’t stop, please don’t stop, please PLEASE pleasepleaseplease_ and then it’s over and Poe stands back and licks his lips. “Oh, you’re going to be _fun._ ” It’s practically a purr and he can’t miss the bulge in the other man’s pants. He hears a low moan from the bed and over Poe’s shoulder he can see Rey and Finn, and they aren’t just watching anymore.

Finn is undressing Rey, mouth and hands exploring every newly revealed inch of skin as she writhes and sighs and moans on the bed.

The worship taking place before him is a stark contrast to the rain of blows across his back, the sting over his ass and thighs. He knows his skin is already a bright, burning red, looks forward to the welts that will be there come morning. Poe strokes over the marks on his back, fingers trailing diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hip, and something like a whimper fights its way out of his throat. Poe presses against him, setting fire to the marks on his skin, and leans down, lips right next to his ear.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

He makes that same whimpering noise again and Poe bites lightly at the shell of his ear.

“I think maybe I should let you just watch for a while,” Poe says softly, before stepping around him again, crawling onto the bed with a lithe grace he hadn’t realized the other man possessed. It’s fascinating to watch.

Poe meets Finn in the middle of the bed, the younger man rising onto his knees to meet Poe in a kiss over Rey’s nude body. She makes a mewling sound and sits up, pushing them apart until she can slip between them, kissing them each in turn and together she and Poe strip Finn’s shirt off.

He can’t look away as their hands caress and explore.

Poe is still in control, but on the bed he is…gentle. “Finn,” he says after a while, once they are all stripped bare with swollen lips and panting for breath, jerking his chin towards the end of the bed. Poe wraps his arms around Rey, trailing kisses down the side of her neck and never breaking eye contact over her shoulder as Finn moves closer.

Finn grasps the metal ring on the collar, using it to turn him just a bit before he leans in. Finn’s kiss is firm, a caress of mouths, and Rey whines in the background in response to whatever Poe is doing. When Finn moves again Poe is still staring at him, holding his eyes again as his hands stroke over the woman in his arms, one playing at her breasts, first one then the other, while the other hand dips between her legs and she moans, hips rolling in an attempt to increase the friction. He whispers something only Rey can hear, and she moans again, eyes hooded as she nods. Then Rey is moving to the end of the bed, legs hanging off the mattress as Poe comes back to him, fisting one hand in his hair and using it to jerk him forward, until his face is hovering just there, just above Rey, and he can’t hold back a shudder.

He waits, though. For instruction. For _permission._ He can’t believe he will be allowed…

And then Poe’s grip tightens just that bit more, drawing a low whine from his throat. Poe’s lips are against his ear again. “Use your mouth. Taste her. Make her scream.”

He hasn’t done this before, has never cared for anyone else’s pleasure.

But it’s _Rey_ and he _wants_ to.

The first stroke of his tongue is tentative, testing.

She moans and sends him the sensations over the bond, and he can’t contain a shiver as she coaxes and directs him, shows him over their connection where and how to lick and kiss and suck, where he can even venture a light bite, holding her lightly in his teeth as she bucks against him. It occurs to him that he’s not doing a good job if she can be this focused and he redoubles his efforts, using what she showed him, relying on the signals of her body—her gasps and sighs, the way she moves her hips to chase after him, the way her muscles tighten and she the presses her thighs against his head, holding him in place.

He’s always been a quick study.

She’s close, he knows she’s close, when he pulls off of her, managing to break free of the hold her legs had on him and turning his attention to her thighs, wanting—needing—to mark her, to leave proof that HE has been this close, HE has done this. She whines when he moves away, gasps when his teeth press into the firm flesh of her thigh, not hard enough to bleed her—never that—but there is a reddened imprint of his teeth left behind. He doesn’t think it will bruise—a pity, that. He soothes the bite with his tongue in long, firm strokes and she cries out, cursing at him.

He can’t help the smirk that twitches at his lips, and it’s…nice…knowing he might be able to _smile_ again someday. But for now, he has a task to finish, and he applies himself with a renewed vigor.

He wishes he could use his hands, hold her hips down, keep her where he wants her, but the way he’s bound, his position kneeling at the foot of the bed, has his arms trapped, pinned between his body and the bed. He makes the best of what he has, burying his entire face in her until he is in very real danger of not being able to breathe, but then she comes, and when she does she screams, and he thinks it would have been worth it, he could have died content knowing he’d caused her to fly apart like that with his final breath.

He pulls away from her when her legs unlock from him, rests his head against her thigh, against his bite mark. He savors the ache in is jaw, the fact that his lips and tongue are nearly numb. He is _covered_ in her juices, face sticky, and all he can taste or smell is Rey.

Idly, he wonders how long he will have to wait before he can do that again.

He hears a hum of contentment and realizes it came from him, and he presses a single, gentle kiss on her other thigh, the one he hasn’t marked yet.

The return of the grip on his hair surprises him and he sucks in a breath as Poe uses his locks to move him again, pulling him up higher on his knees. Finn’s hand snakes out, cupping his chin, holding him firmly in place. “Don’t. Move.” Finn hisses and then he leans in and…is he licking?

Finn licks at his chin, along his jaw, brushes just past the edge of his mouth, and then Poe is there, mirroring his actions on the other side, and once his face is as clean of Rey’s release as they can get it, Finn tilts his head, angling him toward Poe, whose tongue flicks out, tracing his lips. Obediently he opens, but then Poe moves away, and he whines at the loss, until Finn pulls at him again.

Finn seals their mouths together, sucking at his tongue, savoring every taste of Rey until that’s gone and then Finn is just kissing _him_ , tasting _him_ with no pretense.

Vaguely, he hears something metallic, and his hands are suddenly lighter as the shackles fall open. He doesn’t waste any time, ignores the tingling, shooting bursts of pain from the return of circulation in his arms, in his hands, and wraps his arms around Finn, lets his hands explore the younger man’s back.

He brushes the scar and freezes.

“NO!” Finn growls harshly. “Be here and now. With us.” And then Finn is kissing him again, bruising and biting and shivering as one of his hands returned to Finn’s back, tentatively traces the scar, all the way up.

_Let the past die_ , he thinks. It’s the first time that actually might be a good idea.

Finn’s hand is on his hip, the other on his shoulder, and he finds himself being directed, guided, onto the bed, pushed down onto his back beside Rey and he hisses as his back hits the bed. Then Finn pulls away and Rey kisses him, claiming his mouth with a gentle desperation, her hands cupping his face. He feels another pair of lips, trailing over his chest—Finn, it’s Finn kissing and licking and biting a path down his torso, and then Rey leaves his mouth, lips and tongue trailing over his neck, and he doesn’t know where to focus, which sensation to _feel_ , doesn’t even notice at first when the third set of lips trails over his thighs, settles in a bruising bite on his hip—

(that will mark, it will bruise and he will be able to _see_ it and he _whimpers_ )

—and then moves.

The sound he makes when Poe swallows him down is one he’s never _heard_ before, much less made and he might just DIE, just expire right here.

He doesn’t notice the tears until Rey wipes them away, kissing the damp trail they’ve left, while Finn whispers gently in his ear. _“Ours. Ours to do with as we please.”_

He had expected to be executed.

Wanted to be punished.

But this…this is something else.

He feels…cherished.

And that almost as much as the pressure of Poe’s mouth, the sensation as he swallows and hollows his cheeks, makes his world go blank, vision whiting out.

His eyes flutter, vision still blurry, and the sounds of flesh pounding against flesh ring in is ears. He blinks, squints, waiting for his vision to clear. Rey is panting—gasping—and her hand scrabbles for a hold, finding his fingers and lacing her fingers through, locking them together. His gaze follows the line of her arm, across her shoulder. Her eyes are closed, mouth open, back arched as Poe thrusts into her, the bed shaking with the force of it. He stares, fascinated, at where the two are locked together, and then he realizes Finn is behind Poe and he can’t SEE that and it seems a shame.

Part of him wishes he could move, get a better vantage point and see all three of them, but Rey is holding onto him like a lifeline, fingers flexing against his in rhythm with the thrusts into her body, and his limbs somehow feel both weightless and unbearably heavy.

So he stays, watching silently, listening to the patterns in their breathing change, watching their faces, _learning_ , deciding which expressions _he_ wants to put there one day.

He sees it an instant before Rey cries out, watches they way her body tenses, trembles as she flies apart, and before she can even catch her breath it’s Poe’s turn, and that in turn brings Finn and they collapse in a sweaty, tangled heap, Finn on the other side of Rey and Poe half on top of her, half on _him_ and oh so slowly, he lets his free hand move up, trace down Poe’s side, over his hip, and back up. For his part, Poe shifts, sliding off Rey and leaning into his touch and for a blessed few moments, inside his head is _silence._

Peace.


End file.
